


By Your Side

by Aini_NuFire



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Legolas-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-06-07 06:48:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6791899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aini_NuFire/pseuds/Aini_NuFire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of friendship one-shots.</p><p>Ch. 7: Aragorn meets Thranduil for the first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Flies and Spiders

**Author's Note:**

> I was interested in the friendship Legolas and Gandalf might have had. They seemed very at ease with each other in both the LoTR films and BoFA, so that’s what this first short story will explore.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing and make no profit from these stories. I simply enjoy challenging and stretching my writing muscles by playing in the amazing Tolkien’s sandbox.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even wizards shouldn’t stray from the elven path in Mirkwood. Pre-Hobbit

 

This was quite a pickle the great wizard, Gandalf the Grey, found himself in. He’d been traveling through Mirkwood on his way to Erebor, and had strayed from the elven path. He knew better, of course. The forest was growing darker under the Shadow’s influence. Evil creatures infested its depths, having claimed the south, and ever-encroached on the northern borders of the wood-elves’ kingdom. Even the elven path through the forest was not completely safe, and when Gandalf had come upon massive webbing blocking the way, he had decided to try going around, rather than disturb any spiders that might have been lurking in the trees ahead. The wizard had thought it strange a nest might have cropped up this close to the wood-elves’ dwelling, but Thranduil’s people were hard-pressed more and more each day to drive the darkness back. Perhaps he should make a short detour to the palace to report this sighting.

It really shouldn’t have been that hard to wind a course around the webs and return to the elven path—he was an Istar, after all—but he hadn’t counted on the spiders setting a trap. The webbing had been a diversion, apparently, and Gandalf had unwittingly stepped into the real snare that lay a mere few yards away. Now he was staring down a particularly fat giant spider, whose head almost came up to his waist, while four more scuttled in from behind or skittered down the trees.

Gandalf heaved a sigh, tilting his staff to grip it with both hands. The head spider chittered in excitement.

“ _Fresh meat,_ ” it hissed. “ _How much meat under those robes, eh?_ ” It crept forward, and Gandalf brandished his staff, driving it back. The creature spat in anger, a dozen beady eyes flashing dangerously.

The wizard whirled at a snapping twig, cracking the end of his staff under another spider’s mandible before it could bite his legs. The squishy body went flying to bounce across the ground. With a screech, two other spiders charged him at once. Gandalf uttered a word of command, and the crystal nestled in the crown of his staff blazed forth with an explosion of light. The arachnids shrieked, cursing the bright luminescence. Gandalf pivoted in a circle, swinging his staff around to strike any spiders that were getting too close. Although, if he was going to dispatch them, they’d have to get near enough for him to crush their bulbous skulls. The light receded, plunging the forest into gloom once more.

“Go back to the shadows!” Gandalf commanded.

The lead spider clacked its pincers in what sounded like laughter. “ _Look around you, wizard. We_ are _in shadow!_ ” With that, the beast reared up on its back legs, flailing its front appendages in pantomime of a charge.

Gandalf barely had time to brace himself as the spiders surged forward again. He clubbed the ones on the ground with his staff, but failed to see the one in the tree branches leap. A heavy weight slammed into his back, propelling him to the ground. He landed with a grunt, and attempted to roll over before the spider could jab him with its stinger. Pointed legs clawed at his cloak, the excited voices rising in pitch. Then the bulk crashed down on the wizard again, only this time unmoving. Gandalf heard the other arachnids hiss furiously, and he struggled to shove the dead weight off.

An arrow zinged over his head to strike a spider between its many eyes. Gandalf looked up in surprise as an elf dropped from the trees, firing another arrow as soon as he rolled into a crouch. The lithe figure was up on his feet a second later. The next bolt he shot, however, failed to pierce the spider’s hide. Flipping his bow over his shoulder, he exchanged it for a pair of twin daggers, which he deftly thrust through the spider’s body and neck. With a squelch, he wrenched the blades free and let the beast thud on the ground. Blue eyes glinting with cold fury, the elf spun around to make sure no other assailants remained before he turned toward the wizard.

“Legolas,” Gandalf breathed in relief as he staggered to his feet. He was not ashamed to admit he was quite glad of the Mirkwood prince’s arrival.

“Gandalf.” The elf inclined his head in greeting. As he lifted his gaze, a twinkle of mirth entered his eyes. “Are you trying to prove my father right that you always bring trouble wherever you go?”

Gandalf harrumphed. “I brought no such thing. The spiders were laying in wait for me.” He regretted his words immediately as Legolas’s face fell.

“We cleared the nest in this quadrant two days ago.” He swept his gaze across the forest floor at the curled up corpses, then up through the trees toward the webbing that barred the elven path. “They should not have returned so boldly and quickly. Forgive us, Mithrandir. You should have been able to pass here unmolested.”

Gandalf softened his tone. “It’s no fault of yours, Greenleaf. Your people fight bravely and are doing all they can.”

“It is not enough.” Gripping his twin knives, Legolas strode toward the path. Gandalf hobbled to keep up, and found the prince hacking down the webs. As the wizard looked around, he noticed the absence of a patrol.

“Legolas, what brought you out here?” He left out the ‘alone’ part of his question. These were dark days indeed when an elf shouldn’t wander freely in his own land.

“The trees whispered of a visitor,” Legolas replied as he sliced through a strand of silk. “When I realized who they meant, I thought to come meet you.”

Gandalf leaned on his staff. “And well that you did.”

Legolas paused in his eradicating to flash the wizard a brief smile. “I’m sure you would have handled them.”

Yes, well, he likely wouldn’t have escaped unscathed. Five giant spiders was a lot, especially for an Istar who didn’t have a sword. Gandalf made a mental note to remedy that someday.

Wait, there had been five spiders, but Gandalf could only recall Legolas killing four…

The elf prince suddenly jerked ramrod straight, whipping his gaze to the right. Tree branches thrashed, accompanied by cacophonous clicking. Legolas flipped his knives back into their sheaths and drew his bow. In a second swift motion, he’d nocked an arrow and let it fly. A sharp squeal echoed from beneath the foliage.

“Run, Gandalf!”

The wizard let out a huff and gripped his staff defensively. As if he would truly leave the prince to battle these monsters alone. Legolas felled two more hidden beasts before he turned to flee, but as he did so, a net of milky white strands came flinging through the air. It caught the elf in the side, wrapping around his torso and tangling around his arms. Legolas tripped and went sprawling on the ground.

Gandalf surged forward to free him when he felt something catch his ankle, and then he was plummeting toward the earth. Twisting midair, he landed hard on his elbow, which made him drop his staff. A sheet of sticky gossamer settled over him, threads clinging to his clothes, skin, and beard. With a frustrated grunt, Gandalf attempted to reclaim his staff, but a twiggy leg stomped down next to him, almost impaling his hand.

He spotted Legolas wrenching his arm back in an effort to get one of his knives. Just as the elf was about to free the blade, one of the spiders plopped down on top of him. Legolas gave a sharp cry of pain, and then his movements began to lessen.

Gandalf struggled harder, lips moving in an incantation. Yet before he could complete it, the lead giant spider from before skittered up and smacked him hard with its leg, sending the wizard flipping over to crash into a tree. His head cracked against the trunk, and blackness swarmed down on him.

* * *

 

When Gandalf regained awareness, he groaned at the throbbing in both his head and arm. He sincerely hoped nothing was fractured. He tried to move, but found his limbs tightly bound in something gummy and elastic. High-pitched voices reached his ears then, a grating dissonance that could only come from the spawn of Ered Gorgoroth. Gandalf closed his eyes in exasperation. This was an even worse pickle than when he’d first departed from the path. He was one of the Istari, by the Valar! This fiasco was rather humiliating.

Ai, but he wasn’t alone! Careful not to make any noticeable movements, Gandalf craned his neck to survey his surroundings. Rock walls rose up around him, nearly every inch draped in sticky webbing. A dim glow filtered in from the cave’s large opening a few yards away, illuminating several silhouettes gathered at the entrance. For the moment, the giant spiders appeared preoccupied with something. Upon closer inspection, Gandalf spotted his staff lying in the center of the circle of spiders as they kicked it back and forth between them. Well, at least he hadn’t lost _that_ , but for the moment he tore his gaze away in search of something more important.

Gandalf blinked to let his eyes adjust to the gloom of the cave, and found Legolas laying only two feet away. The elf prince was also wrapped in constraining spider silk, complexion almost as white as the cobwebs. His half-lidded eyes stared blankly up at the ceiling. Gandalf uttered a dwarfish curse, then quickly checked himself lest he draw the attention of the spiders. They seemed content to ignore him for now.

When he turned his head back to Legolas, he was startled by the sluggish flutter of eyelids. “Legolas,” he hissed. “You must wake.”

A small moan issued from the prone figure, but blue eyes gradually cleared of their glassy sheen. Legolas lolled his head to the side and met Gandalf’s gaze. “Mithrandir?”

“Shh,” Gandalf urged. “We are in a spider den.”

Legolas squeezed his eyes shut as though in pain, but forced them open again, his warrior mask falling into place as he took stock of their situation. His gaze roved slowly over Gandalf. “Can you move?” he whispered.

Gandalf tugged at the net. “Not very well. A knife would be most useful.”

Legolas’s expression pinched in concentration, but after a long moment, he let out a wheezing breath. “The venom is still in my veins; I cannot feel my arms or legs. You will have to try retrieving my knife on your own.”

Gandalf worked his jaw as he considered how to go about that. A hobbit would no doubt be useful in a time like this. With another glance at the conversing spiders, he began to sidle forward like a caterpillar, for he was certainly cocooned like one. Once he was next to Legolas, he wormed his fingers between the bands of spider silk, grasping for an ivory hilt sticking up from behind the elf’s shoulder. A shriek made him freeze and whip around in expectation of being caught, but the group was still engrossed with his staff.

“ _Where’s the glow?_ ” one hissed.

“ _Smother it!_ ”

“ _I can’t find it!_ ”

“Gandalf?” Legolas whispered worriedly.

The wizard returned his focus to prying the knife free. “The spiders are arguing.”

Legolas furrowed his brow. “You can hear their speech?”

“Yes, as coarse as it is. All of the Maiar can.”

Legolas’s frown deepened, and he asked almost fearfully, “What are they arguing about?”

“They remember the light my staff cast when they first attacked me,” he explained, stretching his fingers until they strained. “Spiders hate the light, as you know, but also have an unquenchable desire to devour it. At the moment, they are preoccupied trying to make it shine again.”

Legolas shifted his gaze over the wizard’s shoulder. “It will not be easy to get past them.”

“That, my dear boy, I have already thought of. I will simply give them what they want.” Gandalf’s fingers finally curled around the hilt, and he slipped the dagger free. Turning it inward, he began to saw through the web cocoon. Next to him, Legolas shifted, trying to stir feeling back into his body. A tremor ran through the muscles in one arm, but that was it.

Once free of the sticky webbing, Gandalf deftly cut the elf prince loose as well. He tore the gossamer clumps off, then slowly and quietly helped Legolas sit up, frowning at how slack his limbs were. One small benefit to the poison though: it was suppressing the elf’s natural glow that otherwise would have suffused the outline of his figure like a halo of moonlight. As long as the spiders didn’t have another target in sight, they would continue to be absorbed with Gandalf’s staff. Which he would take back in just a few moments.

Legolas tried to lift his hand, but barely made it a few centimeters before it collapsed back to his side. He scowled, which turned into a grimace. “I cannot outrun them,” he said morosely. “You will have to escape on your own.”

“Rubbish and poppycock,” Gandalf huffed, wrapping his hand around the prince’s wrist. His beard twitched as his mouth moved almost imperceptibly with a small spell. The wizard shifted his body to shield the slight golden aura from view as strength infused into Legolas’s limbs. It was not a sufficient counteragent to the paralyzing poison, but would hopefully be enough for them to make a run for it.

Legolas let out a small gasp of surprise, and immediately reached up to grab his other knife. Gandalf helped him to his feet, and they turned toward the six spiders still batting at the wizard’s staff.

“When I give the signal, run for the exit,” Gandalf instructed.

Legolas shot him a bewildered look. “And what do you plan to do?”

“Just trust me,” he grumbled back. Without further haggle, Gandalf raised his arms and shouted a word of command. The spiders whipped their bodies around, but in that moment the staff responded to the wizard’s power, and the crystal exploded with a blinding burst of light that swallowed the cave in a deluge like the sun. The spiders shrieked and squealed in surprise and pain.

Gandalf gave Legolas a shove, trusting the elf to make for the cave opening. Though equally impaired by the ruthless nova, Gandalf lunged for where he’d last seen the staff. He tripped over a bulbous body and landed hard on the ground. His arm brushed a rod of wood, and he snatched it up. He could hear the frantic clacking of spider legs as they swarmed in a flurry around him, seeking the source of the hurtful light, even as they yearned to consume it. Gandalf scrambled to his feet, maintaining the intense luminosity so the arachnids remained blind just a little longer—even if it meant he too was stumbling through a haze of light. A bowstring twanged, and an arrow whizzed past his head to strike squishy flesh. At least Legolas had made it outside.

Once Gandalf sensed the spiders were behind him, he lessened the crystal’s brightness. His eyes took a moment to adjust, and white spots still danced across his vision, but he could make out the cave walls and the opening several feet ahead. Now was his one chance.

Whirling to a stop, Gandalf raised his staff and began chanting. The spiders screamed in rage and charged forth along the floor and walls, their black flesh bathed a putrid gray in the pure white glow. Gandalf swung his staff around, not to strike a spider, but the side of the tunnel. There was a great crack, and the impact vibration rattled deep through the earth. The ground shook, jostling loose several rocks and boulders that began raining down on the cave. One flattened a spider mid-charge, while the quake made the others stumble and trip.

Gandalf turned to run, catching a chunk of granite in the shoulder. He hobbled toward the exit, the light from his staff now all but extinguished. Another violent groan from the mountain pitched him into the side of the tunnel. Rocks were falling all around, quickly filling up the cave entrance. Gandalf surged forward to escape when another jagged rock clipped him. Perhaps bringing the mountain down on himself wasn’t the _best_ idea.

He stumbled again, but before he could fall, hands grabbed his cloak and yanked him forward. Gandalf could barely see through the haze of dust, but in the next moment, he was out in fresh air, coughing and gasping for breath. Legolas hauled the wizard several more feet away until they were clear of the cave-in. The screeching of spiders was drowned out by the clamor of boulders, and the last arachnid was squashed in the final collapse, only its spindly legs and a puddle of black ichor oozing out from under the pile.

Gandalf let out a heavy sigh of relief and sagged against a tree. He glanced at Legolas. “See? We not only escaped, but those spiders will no longer harass your borders.”

The elf prince rolled his eyes, and then promptly slumped to the ground. Gandalf frowned; that strengthening spell hadn’t lasted very long. He straightened, only to find his shoulder, leg, and ribs achy and bruised. Pursing his lips, Gandalf scanned the surrounding forest. The spiders had carried them quite a bit to reach the base of the Mirkwood mountains.

He knelt beside Legolas. “How long until the venom has lost its potency?”

“A few hours.” The elf reached up to rub his shoulder, which Gandalf noticed had a puncture wound through a hole in the tunic, and the flesh underneath was swollen and purple. It wasn’t fatal, but the stinger’s bite looked ugly and painful.

“The sooner we return you to your father’s halls, the better.” He slipped Legolas’s knife back in its sheath, and then pulled the prince’s uninjured arm over his shoulder and hefted him to his feet. Gandalf’s muscles twinged, eliciting a pained grunt.

“Do not strain yourself, Mithrandir.”

“I am not a doddering old man,” he retorted, and took a shuffling step forward.

Legolas’s lips twitched. “I would never say that. But you are injured.”

“Scratches and bruises. Hardly anything to fuss over.” Gandalf waved his staff dismissively, but quickly set it down again to help brace his weight. He considered lighting the crystal again to aid their path; though it was still mid-day, this deep in the forest everything was dark, the sky and direct sunlight completely blotted out by a thick canopy of gnarled branches and twisting leaves. However, he did not want to draw the attention of any other spiders that might be around.

“Thank you,” Legolas said after several moments of silence.

Gandalf’s beard twitched with a small smile, though the prince couldn’t see it as he was focused on putting one foot in front of the other. “You came to my rescue first; I was simply repaying the favor. Although,” he mused. “I’m not sure your father will see it that way.”

Legolas grimaced. “You can leave me at the south gate, if you wish. I can make it back on my own from there.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Gandalf huffed. “Even if you could walk steadily on your own, I would not dispatch you so callously, Greenleaf. And,” he added haughtily. “I am not afraid of Thranduil.”

Legolas smirked. “No? You seemed pretty hasty to leave after that time your fireworks caught on the drapes.”

Gandalf shot him a dubious and mildly offended look. “That was over two millennia ago when you were still an elfling!”

“You know elves have long memories.”

“Then you should remember it was you who begged for a display indoors since, and I quote, ‘the trees would violently object’.”

Legolas flashed him a grin. “Wizards have long memories too, I see. Father still blamed you though.”

Gandalf harrumphed. “Yes, well, in his eyes you could do no wrong.”

Legolas fell silent, gaze on the ground. “That was then,” he said quietly, perhaps to himself, but Gandalf heard.

“Have you done something to displease him?” the wizard asked curiously. Legolas had the temper and pride of his father, though he was also unreservedly obedient as a Mirkwood captain serving his king. In fact, there were a few isolationist beliefs Gandalf would like to weed from the prince in the near future…and _that_ could certainly cause conflict within the royal family. But as he’d said, he wasn’t afraid of the elven king. Much.

“Legolas?” Gandalf prompted when the prince didn’t respond, and drew them to a stop to check on the elf’s condition. Though weak and pale, he didn’t appear on the verge of collapse, merely sinking into his mind and whatever sullen thoughts lay there.

Legolas shook his head. “It was my responsibility to clear that nest, in which I failed. It is my duty to protect our home, and every day I lose a little more ground.” He held up his hand to stave off an interruption. “I know what you would say. We are doing all we can. Yet it is not enough, Gandalf. The Shadow grows, and I must stand in my father’s halls and tell him our borders are shrinking, that we must retreat further. I see the disappointment in his eyes.”

“Not towards you,” Gandalf said sharply. “I am sure that as much as you blame yourself, Thranduil’s frustration is equally directed inward.” Honestly, the two were so alike. “Neither of you deserve the circumstances life has thrown at you, but do not give up hope, Legolas. There will come a day when you need not pick up the knife and bow to walk joyously under the trees.”

“Is that foresight you speak with?” Legolas asked ruefully.

Gandalf smiled. “Faith. And one is not even required to have very much of it. The size of a mustard seed is sufficient to emerge victorious.” He tugged the elf forward once more, letting Legolas mull over those words. It was several long moments before the prince spoke again.

“ _Le hannon_.”

Gandalf smiled, hearing the thanks encompass more than just the wizard’s encouragement. “You are welcome, Greenleaf.”

Perhaps Gandalf would stay in Mirkwood for a few days. His errand to Erebor could be postponed. And yes, Thranduil would likely be furious when he saw the wizard limping in with his wounded son, but Gandalf could handle the king’s ire. Sometimes friendship was more important than temporary discomforts.


	2. The Things We Carry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can Gandalf’s intervention save Legolas and Thranduil before they both fade from grief? (Approx 1,000 years before the Fellowship)

 

Legolas stood on the bank of the black stream, watching its eddies swirl and bob like sloshing oil. One step, one sip, and the Enchanted River would send him into a restful sleep where he could finally escape his mounting grief. Sorrow had dug its claws into his heart and squeezed to the point that every breath physically hurt. He just wanted a moment of relief.

Legolas let the bubbling currents lull him into a trance until the forest around him bled away, and all he heard and saw was the rushing waters and the promise of rest they offered. Even his limbs began to feel numb. One sip…and when he woke he would not remember his grief. Would not remember those final moments that haunted his elven dreams and waking eyes. Until he returned to the palace, that is, to find everyone in mourning, his father shut away without a word, and his mother…

The sound of the gurgling river turned to crashing blades and echoed screams. The scent of blood and sweat and filth burned his nostrils, almost making him gag. And those silver eyes peered up at him from beneath the dips in the water’s surface, pupils blown wide as the rusted blade punched through her back and out her chest.

Legolas gave himself a rough shake, hands clamping around his head. He did not want to see it anymore! He curled forward slightly as he choked on a suppressed sob. The brief respite the enchanted waters might give him would be fleeting, and when he not only learned of her death again, but also his inability to save her, the pain would be doubly cruel.

Unless…unless he plunged fully into the river. If he completely immersed himself, a greater span of memories would be taken from him. Not just her death, but memories _of_ _her_ , of his love for her. She could become as a stranger to him, and thus her death would not affect him so severely.

Legolas wrenched his gaze away from the water, cursing his cowardice—and his betrayal. What kind of son wanted to forget his mother? No, he didn’t _want_ to forget her. He wanted to hold tight to his memories and cherish them, for they were all he had left…if it weren’t for the pain they also caused, which Legolas truly didn’t know if he could bear much longer. Grief could cause an elf to fade, like a sapling cut off from all sun and water, its bark slowly shriveling into cracked grooves, leaves so dry and paper-thin one touch could cause them to disintegrate like chaff on the wind. Legolas knew, deep down, that he was breaking, and he would do anything to make it stop, including finding his way to the Enchanted River in the hopes it would take his memories, and with them the pain.

He took a half-step toward the water, only to jerk to the side again. He could not truly be considering something so foolish? And yet, what choice was there? As much as Legolas was grieving, his father was likely in worse condition. He had been there too, leading the incursion into Gundabad’s fortress to rescue the Queen of Greenwood after she had been taken by orcs. The contingent of elves had fought valiantly and ruthlessly, cutting their way through enemy forces. Thranduil had been closer—a mere ten feet—from saving his wife from the hulking brute holding her by the back of the neck in a vice-like grip. Legolas had seen, had felled an orc and begun to run toward his mother. It was as though the beast had waited for that moment when the elven-King’s eyes met his, to thrust the killing blow through the queen’s body. With the blade still protruding from her torso, the orc then shoved her over the edge of a pit, her body to be lost forever in the bowels of Gundabad. That orc had paid with its life, of course, but the damage had been irreparably wrought.

Legolas sank to one knee in the muddy bank, eyes fixated on the water once more. Both he and his father were fading. Mirkwood was slowly falling into shadow. Who would their people look to if they both succumbed to grief or sailed? Though Legolas did not want the burden of kingship, he knew he could not save his father, just as he couldn’t save his mother. As shameful as it was to be considering this course of action, so too was it disgraceful to abandon his people. The queen would have understood, and would not have held it against him. It was up to Legolas to take up leadership, and the only way he could do that was to wash away his pain.

“Forgive me, _naneth_ ,” he whispered. With that, he staggered upright once more, and took a step toward the river.

~`~`~`~

Gandalf strolled through the palace halls, the haunting sounds of laments filling every corridor and chamber with their somber tenor. All of Mirkwood was in mourning for their queen. The grey wizard had come as soon as word reached him of her tragic death, and though his arrival was not exactly welcomed, neither was he turned away. It was as though the elves were lost, wandering in a daze of grief. Duties had been forsaken, and the halls were nearly empty—though not abandoned, as the doleful voices filled the air from hidden perches.

Despite the desolate shroud that had fallen over the palace, Gandalf knew most of the elves would recover. Rather, it was the royal family he feared for. He had seen Legolas only briefly when he arrived. The prince appeared a shell of his normal self, complexion far too pale, dark circles under sunken eyes. He had thanked Gandalf for coming, and personally readied a room for him, which the wizard had tried to protest politely. It was clear that Legolas was in charge, for it was him the other elves kept coming to for direction. But aside from ordering the defenses to be drawn back to the palace, the prince had been laconic and distant. As far as Gandalf had heard in the few days he’d stayed, Legolas had not sung one note of mourning.

And then there was Thranduil, whom no one had seen since he’d first returned from the failed rescue. He had locked himself behind closed doors, and had not accepted food, drink, or visitors since, not even his son. Some had begun to whisper whether the king had already faded, yet no one dared to break down his chamber doors and find out. A couple elves had nervously suggested Gandalf do so, for he was much more equipped to weather Thranduil’s wrath were the king still alive. Gandalf had snorted at the notion, and assured the concerned individuals to give Thranduil time. Yet, as the days wore on, Gandalf was also becoming concerned—for both father and son.

Gandalf had not seen Legolas all morning, and after searching nearly every inch of the palace, began to worriedly suspect the prince had left the premises. A dark foreboding settled over the wizard’s mind, and he began to quicken his pace toward the gates.

“Did Legolas pass this way?” he demanded of the guards, interrupting their quiet reverie. With a contrite glance at each other for their inattentiveness, they shook their heads.

Gandalf huffed, and turned to go back and search the dungeons, though he figured that’d be the last place a grieving wood-elf would want to go, when one of the guards let out a small gasp of surprise.

“What?” Gandalf asked.

“The trees say Legolas did leave the palace by another exit, and is in the forest west of here.”

Gandalf pursed his lips. “Alright then, let me pass.”

“We should send out a party,” the guard began.

“I doubt your prince would appreciate that,” Gandalf interrupted. “I will find him and bring him back.”

The guards looked uncertain, so Gandalf drew his shoulders back, and they quickly ducked their heads in submission. Opening the gates, they let him walk out into a sun-bathed morning filled with the chirping of birds and pirouetting butterflies, a stark contrast to the gloom that lay behind him. Gandalf crossed the bridge and turned west. He suspected Legolas had sought comfort from the trees, for the wood-elf had never felt truly at rest in the underground palace. The wizard hoped sun and fresh air might revive the young prince somewhat, yet that wish was becoming overshadowed with a fear he could not name. Gripping his staff, Gandalf tapped into the power of the Maia to guide his steps. Call it magic, instinct, or divine guidance, Gandalf followed the minute tug he felt within his heart.

The further he traveled, the more he felt a growing pressure in his chest. Something wasn’t right. His gaze flitted from side to side, scanning the trees for orcs or spiders, or some such evil presence, yet that was not it. The forest was quiet and tranquil as normal, except…the trees rustled, and though the Istar could not hear their speech as a wood-elf could, he sensed their unease, almost as if they were urging him to hurry. Gandalf broke into a brisk pace.

When he barreled through the brush and onto the banks of the Enchanted River, he stumbled to a stop before he could pitch head first into the current. He hadn’t realized it’d been that close. Surely Legolas would not have come this far…

Gandalf turned to the side, and his heart seized. A few yards upstream, Legolas was slowly approaching the water. It seemed he hadn’t even heard Gandalf’s arrival, gaze focused on the river, and in that instant, the wizard knew with dawning horror what the young elf intended.

“Legolas!” Without hesitation, Gandalf lifted his staff and slammed the end down on the ground. A burst of light exploded forth in a ripple of power, bathing the trees and ground in white. Legolas jerked back from the water’s edge, eyes wide and one hand whipping over his shoulder to grasp the hilt of a knife. Gandalf nearly sagged with relief.

Legolas blinked in apparent confusion. “Gandalf?”

The wizard hurriedly shuffled toward the elf. “Yes. Please do not throw that at me, for I have no doubt you won’t miss.”

Legolas frowned, and slowly lowered his arm. “What was that?”

“I might ask you the same,” he replied grumpily, drawing to a stop in front of the prince and casting a pointed look at the river.

Legolas ducked his head in shame. “I…I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

Gandalf forced his tone to soften. “You are grief stricken, Legolas. Few think clearly when overwrought.” He canted his head. “Though pray tell, what _were_ you thinking?”

The elf refused to meet his gaze, and his eyes flicked back to the black torrents. “I did not want to remember anymore. The pain, that day…all of it. I know it was reckless, Mithrandir, but I cannot survive my grief. Especially if my father fades as well, and then who will rule Mirkwood? I must, for it is the last duty left to me, and…and I cannot fail again.”

Gandalf frowned. He had been worried about Legolas coping, but things seemed far worse than he’d feared. As for Thranduil, the stubborn elf-king would be next on Gandalf’s list. For now, he placed a hand on the prince’s shoulder.

“Have you considered that you would not only be losing memories of her, but _all_ your memories of the past few hundred years? You would be erasing yourself as much as her.”

Legolas’s brow furrowed, as though in his turmoil he truly had not realized that. Gandalf was not surprised.

“Not to mention you could drown before floating back to shore,” the wizard continued in mild chastisement. “Then where would the realm of Greenwood be? Or your father, for that matter?”

What little color had been in Legolas’s face blanched, and he took a rather clumsy step away from the bank. “I am a fool,” he said harshly. “A disgrace to the line of Oropher. Should my father fade or sail, I am unfit to take over his rule.”

“Now wait one minute, Greenleaf,” Gandalf started, but Legolas wrenched away to stumble against a tree. His arms had begun to shake.

“What am I to do, Gandalf? I cannot restore my father, and I cannot live up to his legacy. _Ai!_ If only I had reached her in time. Or if only I had perished in her stead.”

“Do not say such things!” Gandalf marched forward, trapping the prince against the tree, and grabbed his elbow fiercely. “Do not think for one moment that your parents could have more easily survived the grief of losing _you_. I daresay it would have been worse.”

Legolas let out a bitter snort, sagging against the trunk. “I am not enough, Gandalf. My father will not even speak to me.” He shook his head, moisture brimming in his eyes, and he reached one hand up to press against his breast. The prince was teetering on the edge, and Gandalf tightened his grip as if his power could keep the young elf anchored to this world.

“Look at me, Legolas.” When the prince failed to respond, Gandalf gave him a light shake until dull eyes lifted. “You need not bear this burden alone, nor be ashamed for feeling emotions as strongly as you do. Let me help you, _mellon nîn_.”

The raw brokenness in Legolas’s eyes tore at Gandalf’s heart. “How?” he whispered dispiritedly.

Looping his arm through the prince’s, Gandalf started to tug him back toward the palace. “For starters, by breaking down a door.”

~`~`~`~

Thranduil sat slumped in the high-back chair in his study, staring at the ashes in the hearth. The fire had long since burned out, though Thranduil could not recall exactly when. Time was meaningless to him now, a vortex of one agonizing moment to the next. His limbs had gone numb from not moving, and a chill had chiseled out a thin layer of stony armor over his skin. Blackness enveloped him, for he had not bothered to light any candles or stoke the fire when it still lived. Like the gray clumps of charred wood, Thranduil’s _fëa_ was slowly crumbling. He did not fight it, did not fear it. For as he sat in this shroud of darkness, he imagined his body was no longer in the palace, that it lay in the abyss with the other half of his heart. That way she wouldn’t be alone.

There was no warning before the chamber doors suddenly burst inward with a vibrating boom and splintering of wood. Thranduil leaped to his feet, colliding with the desk as the abrupt infusion of light in the room blinded him. Flailing for balance, he banged his knee on the knob of a drawer, and then tripped, barely catching himself on the corner. As he blinked against the haze and milky luminescence filling his study, Thranduil wondered how an enemy could have gotten this far into the palace. Where were the guards?

A figure stepped over the broken doors, waving one arm through the dust. It took Thranduil’s eyes a moment to adjust before he noted the intruder’s robes were grey in color, and not merely wreathed in a cloud of smoke. Gandalf coughed and looked around at the rubble, beard twitching ruminatively.

Thranduil finally found his voice. “Are you out of your mind?” he raged. “Wizard or no, I will have you thrown in the dungeons for a century, Mithrandir!”

Gandalf arched his brows in what looked like an invitation to try. With a wave of his staff, the candles in the room suddenly ignited into flames, suffusing the walls and bookshelves in ocher waves of light. Thranduil squeezed his eyes shut and threw an arm up to shield his face from the harshness, cursing the old man.

Gandalf harrumphed under his breath. “’Tis a grave circumstance when an elf cannot abide the light.”

“I do not _abide_ meddlesome wizards barging in like an army of orcs!” Thranduil seethed, ignoring that Gandalf had a point; how long had Thranduil been sitting in the shadows for even the softest glow to hurt? And where on earth were his guards? Had no one heard that minor explosion?

He sank back into his chair, the adrenaline leeching away as quickly as it’d come, leaving him feeling hollow. “What do you want?”

“You have locked yourself away quite long enough.”

“I am _grieving_.”

“You are fading,” the wizard countered.

Thranduil turned his gaze to the ashes. _Nothing lasts forever._ “Yes,” he finally said softly.

“Well cease and desist it at once!”

Thranduil shot him a baleful glare, a spark of energy returning. “It is no concern of yours, Mithrandir. Now leave me in peace.”

Gandalf leaned on his staff. “I will not abandon Mirkwood to ruin, which is what will happen if you continue on this path.”

Thranduil shook his head. “Legolas will become king.”

“You would thrust the crown upon him now, and in this manner? Under the weight of grief he also bears?”

Thranduil’s voice turned hollow with memory. “It is no more than how I ascended the throne.”

“Except you would compound the loss of one parent with two.” Gandalf grumbled in the back of his throat. “He is not meant to be a king,” the Istar insisted, stirring Thranduil’s irritation once more. “I know you have detested the notion since I first brought it up years ago, but in your heart you know it is true!”

“Enough!” Thranduil snapped. “Stop seeking to dictate my life and the life of my son.”

“I am seeking to save them!”

Thranduil waved a dismissive hand, which he then laid across his brow. Weariness was seeping into his marrow, and he just wanted the confounded wizard to go away. “Legolas is strong; he will survive.”

“He is strong, as he takes after you. But he is also his mother’s son. Even as you fade, Thranduil, so does Legolas. It is only a question of which of you will go first!”

Thranduil whipped his head up sharply. “Of what do you speak?”

Gandalf huffed. “If you had bothered to leave this room, you would have seen. He _needs_ you, Thranduil, as much as you need him.”

Thranduil felt a pang in his chest, something that almost tugged him to his feet. But he shoved it down. “He does not need the reminder of my failure,” the king said bitterly.

Gandalf uttered a dwarfish curse that made Thranduil’s eyebrows shoot up. “He does not blame _you_ , my lord.”

Thranduil frowned at the odd emphasis. “I failed to reach her in time.” His voice hitched, and he quickly looked away to conceal the emotion threatening to bubble up from the well within his bleeding heart. “She was slain on my account, and I let her fall,” he whispered, wondering why he was confessing to the one being on Middle-Earth that vexed him more than any other. Thranduil furled his hands into fists, fingernails biting into his palms. No, he would not show such vulnerability. Weakness was meant to be borne in private.

“Legolas is drowning in the same guilt and self-recrimination you are carrying,” Gandalf said in a gentler tone. “Please, Thranduil, if you love your son and cherish his life, go to him. You two are the only ones who can save the other.”

Thranduil canted his head at the wizard. Why was he so insistent? _Because he’s a meddlesome nuisance_. And yet…what if he spoke the truth? What if Legolas was fading under crushing grief and guilt? Thranduil had envisioned leaving quite the legacy for his son, but not that.

He rose to his feet in one swift motion, that simple determination restoring a fraction of his grace and inner fire. “Where is he?”

Gandalf’s beard hid a small smile, but the Maiar’s eyes twinkled with it. “In his bedchamber.”

Thranduil swept past the wizard, long robes swishing across the floor. He heard Gandalf’s footsteps keeping pace with him as he strode through the passages. The sound of melancholic voices reached his ears, and when he registered the lyrics, a fresh stab of pain in his chest almost made him stumble again.

Gandalf came up and took his arm, guiding him down the corridor. Thranduil wanted to protest, wanted to shove the old man off, yet he didn’t. Legolas’s room was just ahead, door cracked open. Thranduil hesitated on the threshold, but Gandalf nudged the door and propelled the king inside. He stopped short at the sight of Legolas laying on the bed, eyes closed. The lines of his face were gaunt, skin bloodless, body utterly still. He looked…dead.

“No…” Thranduil had waited too long. Days, perhaps weeks; he had no way of knowing how long he’d left his son to suffer alone.

“He lives,” Gandalf said hurriedly. “I, uh, I’m afraid I had to cast a little spell to make him sleep. Nothing harmful, I assure you. His eyes are closed because it is a dreamless slumber, one without haunted memories. I needed to make sure he wouldn’t go anywhere while I came to talk with you.”

_Go anywhere?_ Thranduil approached the bed warily, but upon closer inspection, noticed Legolas’s chest was in fact rising and falling with deep, steady breaths. “He is so wan…”

“Have you looked in a mirror?” Gandalf said pointedly, then nodded toward the bed. “You can wake him.”

Thranduil slowly sank onto the side of the mattress, one hand automatically extending to smooth his son’s hair back from his brow.

Legolas twitched, a faint moan mumbling in his throat. His eyelids fluttered open, and the glazed look in his eyes cleared as he blinked in apparent confusion. “ _Adar_?” He pushed himself up onto his elbows.

Thranduil held out a steady hand to help him scoot back against the headboard. He opened his mouth, but closed it, not knowing what to say. His grief was too overwhelming.

Legolas dropped his gaze to his lap, also silent.

“Must I do everything?” Gandalf huffed after a prolonged moment, causing both elves to startle. “You each blame yourselves for Anariel’s death, but _neither_ of you is at fault. It was an act of evil over which you had no control. But you _do_ have a choice now: do not give in to grief. You are both still here.” Gandalf paused and gave them a kind smile. “Think what Anariel would have wanted.”

Thranduil’s throat tightened, and it took every ounce of self-restraint not to let a choked sob pass his lips. He lifted his eyes to the window where vines cascaded down from the outside to wrap around the balcony and creep across the floor. Though servants often trimmed them back, Legolas never closed the shutters, and so the ivy continued to grow wild and carefree. Much like his son.

Thranduil turned back to face Legolas, reaching up to cup the side of his face. “I am sorry for abandoning you.”

Legolas shook his head. “You were in pain. I…I understood.”

“No, Mithrandir is right. I would have let myself succumb to grief without further thought to what that would do to you. It was selfish, and I am ashamed.”

A muscle in Legolas’s jaw ticked, and he ducked his eyes away. “I am the one who is ashamed, father. I was not strong enough to bear it, to bear everything. I…tried to…”

“What’s important is that you both realize where your strength is to be found,” Gandalf interrupted. “In each other.”

Legolas flashed the wizard an odd look that Thranduil could not decipher. The king shook it off, deciding there were more important matters at hand.

“Aye, my son.” With his hand still cupping Legolas’s neck, Thranduil drew him forward into an embrace. Legolas was stiff at first, and Thranduil could not blame him, for it had been many years since either had shown such outward affection toward the other.

Gandalf made a small clearing noise in the back of his throat, which Thranduil almost scowled at. Instead, the king drew in a deep breath and addressed his son, “I make this promise to you now: I will not fade from grief. You are my strength, my Greenleaf.”

Legolas’s voice was muffled against his shoulder. “And you are mine, _adar_.”

Thranduil craned his head slightly, and found Gandalf beaming at them. The king felt the claws of death begin to loosen their hold on his heart, though the grief over his wife’s death was still poignant. But he had found the anchor to this world he thought he’d lost. Legolas needed him, and so Thranduil would help carry his son through this. Gandalf was right—though the elf king would never admit it to the smug wizard—it was a load Thranduil was willing to bear.


	3. The Archer in the Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn is ill and restless; Legolas is there to keep him company. (Pre-Fellowship)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After the major angst of last time, I thought I should do a fluff piece (not really my forte, but a good exercise). And look, I’m capable of not whumping the elf!
> 
> Btw, this is not at all what I envisioned when I first started writing this piece. Halfway through, my inner poet decided she wanted to come out and play.

Aragorn tossed and turned in his bed, tangling the sheets around his legs. No matter which position he tried, he could not alleviate the ache in his muscles and joints, stiff from fever and inflammation. He wished he could simply sink into blissful sleep, but it was proving elusive, as it had for the past two nights since he’d come down with this illness. Aragorn shifted restlessly again, only to be disturbed by a wracking cough that had him curling inward to keep his lungs from escaping in their revolt. Why was it that croup flared up the worst after sunset, the time when he was _supposed_ to be resting in order to recover more quickly?

He slumped back against the pillows, ratty flat things that didn’t provide much cushioning between him and the headboard. His wool blanket was also tattered along the edges, one corner frayed from someone’s cat chewing on it. Not that Aragorn begrudged his current lodgings among the Dúnedain. They were his people after all. Though, a tisane from Lord Elrond’s stores would be a welcome balm right about now.

Aragorn turned his head toward the table across the room where some of his own herbal supplies were laid out, and debated dragging himself from bed to mix something up. He nearly started out of his skin at the figure sitting in the corner between the window and hearth. A steady fire cast golden hues throughout pale hair, and illuminated a book the elf held in one hand, though blue eyes were no longer focused on the page, but gazing contemplatively at the Ranger.

“What are you doing here?” Aragorn blurted before he could consider how that came out.

Legolas cocked his head, apparently not going to take offense. “Reading.” He held the book up as though the man needed visual confirmation.

Aragorn rolled his eyes, and immediately regretted it, for a sharp throb poked out from behind his eyelids. “Why aren’t you with Elladan and Elrohir on the hunt?” he clarified, rubbing his temple. “Weren’t you supposed to leave this morning?” His foster brothers often came to ride with the Dúnedain, and this time was a rare occasion in which Legolas had come to visit as well. They had planned a stag hunt, which Aragorn was sorely disappointed to now be missing.

“They did. I decided to stay.”

Aragorn sighed. “While I appreciate the gesture, you didn’t need to. I am not so ill that I cannot look after myself.”

“Who said I stayed for you?” the prince rejoined. “I borrowed this volume of Ñoldorin poetry from Elladan the last time I saw him, but have not yet had a chance to read it.” Legolas’s lips curved upward. “I think after fifty years he would like it back.”

Aragorn gave him a dubious look, but the elf apparently wasn’t changing his story. He scooted back to sit upright—the coughing was worst when laying flat anyway—and attempted to smooth his coverlets. “Then pray tell,  _mellon nîn_ , why are you reading in _here_?”

Legolas set the book on the table and stood to pull a kettle from the hearth. “The light is better in here than under the stars.” As he poured the steaming water into a mug and added some crushed herbs, Aragorn crossed his arms with a pointed mien.

“Mhm-hmm. You could have taken a lamp up to the twins’ loft.”

“They must have forgotten to replenish the oil before leaving.” Legolas walked the cup over and handed it to Aragorn. The aroma of elderberry and ginger wafted up from the simmering tea, bringing with it comforting memories of Imladris.

“You are incorrigible,” Aragorn said, hiding a smile as he sipped the hot liquid that soothed the raw patch in his throat.

“And you have been too long among Rangers, ingrate.”

He smirked, and affected a simpering tone. “ _Le hannon_ , your _highness_.”

With smug satisfaction at the thanks, Legolas pivoted and returned to his seat by the window. He drew one leg up, opening the book again and resting his arm across his knee.

Aragorn held back a second sigh. “Truly, Legolas, you need not stay here all night. I know how stifling you find mannish dwellings.” In actuality, Aragorn often felt the same, having been raised by elves. The Dúnedain Rangers also, more often than not, spent their time abroad in the wilds. Only a few months out of the year did they settle in the village where their wives and children lived. Which was why Aragorn would have much rather been under the stars with his brothers and good friend instead of stuck in bed.

“Seeing as I have already sat back down, I shall stay until I feel like standing again,” came the flippant reply.

Aragorn debated throwing one of his pillows at the prince, but the support behind his aching back was barely comfortable as it was. He finished his tea slowly, savoring each and every swallow that brought relief to his scratchy throat. The sound of crackling flames and crinkle of turning pages created a low, rhythmic lullaby. Really, all they needed was the chirping of crickets and they’d have a symphony.

Setting his empty mug on the bedside table, Aragorn leaned his head back and closed his eyes, willing his mind and body to find rest. Yet as soon as he sought the elusive slumber, another bout of coughs assaulted him.

“ _Delos_!” he muttered in repugnance. _Ai_ , how he loathed being ill. Having grown up among the First-born who did not succumb to sickness, Aragorn had developed quite the sting of jealousy over an elf’s natural immunity. His repeated pouting throughout his childhood over the injustice had amused his foster brothers greatly, who could not fully comprehend the experience. The closest they could relate was in the form of bearing injuries, but even then with an elf’s accelerated healing, they could not truly empathize. Aragorn had eventually gotten over the envy, of course, with age and maturity, but not the frustration of his own susceptibility to such weaknesses—particularly when he found himself stuck in them.

He shot a look at Legolas, whom he realized had not turned a page in a few minutes. The elf was still focused on the book, but his head was slightly canted away, leaving his eyes hooded.

“I can hear you laughing on the inside,” Aragorn grumbled.

Legolas glanced over with a quirked brow. “I do not take pleasure in your suffering,  _mellon nîn_ .”

Aragorn frowned at the lack of expected banter. “I know you don’t, Legolas, that’s not what I meant. Elladan and Elrohir would have teased me for complaining over something as minor as this.”

“They are not exactly models of ideal patients themselves.”

Aragorn chuckled. “Are any of us?”

Legolas shrugged. “No one enjoys infirmity. The best we can do when afflicted is remember it is temporary, and attempt to distract ourselves in the meantime.” He stood up and dragged the chair over to the bed before gracefully sliding back into it. “Perhaps some lofty Ñoldorin poetry will draw your mind away from your discomfort.”

“It certainly might help put me to sleep.”

The prince grinned, and adopted a lilting tone as he began to read the stanzas. Aragorn’s gaze drifted to the slat ceiling, the musical tenor of Legolas’s voice bringing life to words that sung of the great archer in the sky. His silvery strands of hair flowed like moonlight down his shoulders, plaited back and fastened with pinpricks of celestial light. He fletched his arrows with clusters of stars; his bow was the crescent moon. When he drew back the glittery twine and let it sing, blue-tailed comets arced across the midnight sky. The night archer never missed. Every lunar cycle when the moon waned, he would set out to hunt the constellations—the white stag, the roaring lion, even the great whale.

Such dazzling images filled Aragorn’s mind until he slipped into slumber. He barely felt the scene shift and morph, but suddenly he was running across a wide field bathed in moonlight. A summer breeze swept through the reeds, stirring them into lively whispers. Aragorn came to a stop as a shooting star flared overhead. A grouping of stellar points and celestial mist coalesced into a large bear, which reared up when the arrow struck. In a shatter of diamonds, the constellation dissolved, showering the earth in granules of stardust.

Aragorn turned to trace the path the bolt had taken, and spotted a lithe figure poised on the limb of a mighty oak. Blond hair cascaded around a quiver loaded with radiant arrows. The archer’s green garb nearly blended with the surrounding branches and foliage, but Aragorn could still see him clearly in the pale luminescence of the moon suspended just beside the tree. The archer drew an arrow and nocked it to a bowstring as thin and fine as gossamer. As he pulled back, the half-moon curved a fraction. Then with a chiming twang, the arrow sprang from the bow, bursting into a trail of blue and lavender fire as it zinged through the heavens.

Aragorn remained fixed in the middle of the field, the long grass swaying around him. He was too in awe to move, and though he wanted to approach this magnificent figure, he was afraid to break the spell. More shooting stars lit up the night sky until the quiver was half empty. A stray breeze curled up through the branches, teasing the archer’s hair behind a finely tapered ear. Blue eyes suddenly turned Aragorn’s way, glistering with mirrored starlight and mirth.

He took a step forward, only to stumble, and when he looked up again, the blue eyes were much closer, a mere two feet away…sitting in an old wooden chair as gray light suffused through the window beyond, washing the figure’s silhouette in a soft aureole. Aragorn blinked.

“Sleep well?” Legolas’s voice penetrated his groggy mind.

“Er, yes.” He rubbed his eyes, clearing his vision somewhat and banishing the ethereal glow that had a moment before haloed his friend. Aragorn felt a twinge of disappointment as the last remnant of that dream faded away. He tilted his head at the prince, wincing at the crick in his neck. “I had a rather peculiar dream.”

“Not an unpleasant one, I hope,” Legolas replied. His hands were folded in his lap atop the closed book of poetry. “Your sleep seemed peaceful enough.”

Aragorn let his head rest back against the pillow. “Aye, it was peaceful.”

Silence settled between them as Aragorn’s mind drifted back to that other world, so far removed from the one they dwelt in that was filled with the growing Shadow and looming destinies. After a few minutes, Legolas rose and went to place more water to heat in the hearth. He sifted through Aragorn’s herb stores, setting aside the ones he would put in the tea that morning.

“Legolas,” Aragorn called, and waited for him to look up. “Thank you for staying.”

The elf inclined his head. “You are welcome, _mellon nîn_. And next time, we will both go on the hunt. ”

Aragorn settled back against the pillows, a secret smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He hadn’t really missed out on anything. After all, it was the companionship he’d truly been looking forward to, and with Legolas by his side, it didn’t matter whether they were riding abroad with the wind at their backs, or sitting contentedly under a thatched roof; these were the moments to cherish.


	4. Wrath and Ruin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The path of vengeance leaves more than just the blood of enemies in its wake.

 

_~Wrath~_

 

The midday sun beat down as heavily as the hooves pounding across the plains. Three stallions adorned in the simple yet elegant tack of the elves galloped neck-and-neck, grass and dirt flinging up in their wake, manes and tails whipped back by the wind. Their riders leaned forward intently, each narrowly focused on pushing their steed to its fullest capacity: two raven-haired and one blond, their own long tresses billowing behind them.

As the sight of their agreed finish line rose up ahead, each gave their own encouragement to the horse carrying them. One tightened his knees against a chestnut mare’s ribs; another uttered an elvish phrase in a sable ear that was somehow not lost on the wind. The third, however, fell back. Legolas craned his head just a fraction to gauge Elladan’s and Elrohir’s positions, and spotted Elladan doing the same. Which was apparently the moment of diverted focus Elrohir had been waiting for. His golden stallion suddenly leaped between his brother and friend, pushing past the giant oak by the length of a muzzle.

Legolas mentally berated himself for falling for that trick, _again_. Though, in his defense, it had been a few decades since he’d raced the Peredhil twins. Apparently long enough he’d forgotten the lesson he’d learned the last time.

Elrohir whooped as he reined in his steed and turned her around. “Once again, my horse’s superiority is undisputed.”

Elladan rolled his eyes, swinging his own mount around in a wide berth. “Superior by a mere inch; you must be so proud, brother.”

Legolas smirked. In truth, he did not begrudge the loss. It was good just to see a smile on his friends’ faces. When Glorfindel had written him, suggesting a visit to Imladris if his presence could be spared, Legolas had sensed there was a hidden motivation behind the missive, but nothing could have prepared him for what he found once he finally arrived. He knew Elrond’s wife, Celebrían, had sailed five years past, unable to emotionally recover from her time of captivity with orcs. Her passing had been hard on the Peredhil family. Arwen had gone to stay in Lothlorien with her grandparents, and Elladan and Elrohir had fostered an intense hatred for orcs, naturally. But what Legolas hadn’t known was how far their quest for vengeance had taken them.

Glorfindel had pulled him aside his first night in Rivendell and divulged the depth of his concerns for the twins. They had taken to hunting orcs with reckless abandon. If they continued on this path, Lord Elrond feared they would perish in an ill-conceived battle, or be lost to their rage, a fate worse than the one their mother suffered, for if they fell too far into darkness, not even Valinor would receive them to heal such wounds. Elladan and Elrohir had refused to listen to such worries and admonitions for caution, and had even begun to isolate themselves to avoid confrontations. It had been Glorfindel’s hope that Legolas’s presence may draw them out again and put a chink in the emotional armor they had donned. It was a charge the Greenwood Prince found daunting.

“Indeed,” he called out to Elrohir, “and had Elladan and I not been distracted, you wouldn’t have bested us at all.”

“Aha! Then not only is my horse superior, but my mental acuity as well.”

Elladan scowled at Legolas. “Did you have to point that out?”

Legolas grinned. The banter was familiar and comfortable, and almost served to erase the hint of darkness he saw simmering in the depths of his friends’ eyes. A darkness that had begun to frighten him. He knew what it was like; he had mourned his own mother’s death at the hands of orcs years before, but his grief had eventually pushed him and his father closer, rather than further apart. The divide he had witnessed within Elrond’s household had astonished and pained him. Legolas had no idea how he would broach the subject with the twins, given their reported hostility to it, but he would try. After he’d loosened them up a little more.

“Perhaps a rematch is in order,” Legolas suggested. “After the horses have refreshed themselves, of course.”

“You mean yourself!” Elrohir rejoined, but nevertheless, the three elves turned their mounts to lightly canter west to where they knew a watering hole was located. They crested a small rise, only to rein in sharply at the blighted sight of orcs thirty yards away. Forty of them milled around like bulbous ants, tramping their filth through the watering hole and exchanging guttural jeers.

“ _Delos!_ ” Elrohir spat in abhorrence, drawing his sword so quickly that Legolas was stunned.

“Don’t be foolish, Elrohir,” he hissed. “There are too many. We should return to Imladris and gather a hunting party.”

“They could be gone by the time we get back!”

Legolas was staggered by the intensity of rage brimming in Elrohir. Not even his father’s infamous temper could hold a candle to the hot fury boiling within the Peredhil.

“We can easily track them,” he tried to reason, and turned to Elladan for support. But one look told him the other twin would be of no help. While Elrohir’s anger was explosive and fiery, Elladan’s wrath was cold as steel, eyes as hard and unrelenting as a tempest.

The older Peredhil unsheathed his sword. “They must die _now_.” As one, both dark-haired elves dismounted and whispered words to their steeds to fly to safety.

Legolas swung down after them. “Do not do this!” he urged, heart rate spiking, though not out of fear of battle; he was too experienced of a warrior for that. No, he was terrified by the transformation he was witnessing in his friends. There was nothing of the lighthearted, jovial twins left in their bearing now, only walking incarnations of Death and Vengeance.

“Go for help, Legolas,” Elladan said coldly. “Should any escape, they must be hunted down and destroyed.” With that, the two brothers moved forward as one, striding across the plain with heedless single-mindedness.

Letting out a curse himself, Legolas retrieved his bow and quiver from his horse’s saddle. He was not leaving the twins to battle forty orcs alone, though if they survived this, he would be dearly tempted to strangle them himself. He commanded the horse to return to Imladris, for surely Glorfindel would send out a search party when it arrived riderless. Legolas just hoped it wouldn’t be too late. Then he turned toward the imminent battle.

The orcs had noticed Elladan’s and Elrohir’s approach, and had formed an arced line to greet them. Catcalls, sneers, and growls rose up on the air in a clamor, yet neither twin appeared daunted. They simply lifted their blades and charged toward the horde. In a second, the jibes were replaced with the discordant screech of metal, punctuated by cries of pain. The raven-haired elves crashed against the orcs like water on rocks, crimson froth spewing around them.

Legolas nocked an arrow and let it fly. Without waiting to see if it struck his mark, for it always did, he pulled back another and fired again. Arrows zinged through the air, picking off orcs before they could overwhelm the twins, despite their battle prowess. Unfortunately, it wasn’t long before the orcs noticed Legolas, and then they were charging him as well. He killed a few more with arrows before they’d gotten too close, and then he traded bow for twin daggers.

Spinning and pivoting with the grace of his kind, Legolas slashed and parried, cutting down orcs left and right. But there were just too many. He flung himself away from an arcing axe, only to find himself in the path of another orc, who thrust its knife into the elf’s side. Fiery pain speared through his torso, but Legolas gritted his teeth against it and drove his own dagger into the beast’s throat. It dropped with a dying gurgle. Legolas whirled and almost stumbled, barely throwing up his other blade to catch the axe aimed at his neck again. Twisting under the orc’s arm, he rammed his second knife into the creature’s back. It, too, fell with a strangled squeal.

Legolas staggered back, then slowly dropped to one knee. No, he needed to stay on his feet. But his vision was swimming, and he felt himself list sideways. He fell back against the ground, gaze blinking up at a blue sky marbled with swirling white clouds. It had been such a beautiful day to start.

The sounds of battle had moved away from him, and Legolas listened for the heavy clomping steps of an orc approaching to finish the job. But it appeared he had slain the immediate threats, and flat on the ground as he was, most likely concealed. He knew he should get up, but his legs had gone strangely numb.

The shrieks of orcs and steel were the only thing that let Legolas know Elladan and Elrohir were still alive. But how many orcs remained? And had the twins suffered any injuries that would bring them down eventually?

Legolas tried to draw in a deep breath, which only caused his lungs to seize as pain lanced through his side. He eased the air back out, attempting to relax against the internal fire. He shifted his arm slightly, fingers brushing his tunic and touching something hot and sticky. He squeezed his eyes closed, willing his breathing to slow so his heart would pump less of his life out. Moisture gathered at the corner of one eye, an unshed tear not for himself, but for his friends.

_Ai, Valar, save them_. He prayed not just for their lives, but also their souls, that they would not be lost to this darkness inside them, that they would find their way back. The noise of fighting grew muffled, along with every other sense as Legolas withdrew into himself.

 

_~Ruin~_

 

Elrohir brandished his blade in a wide arc, feeling the resistance and give as sword sliced through brawny muscle and tender flesh. It was like a dance. A terrible, harrowing series of pirouettes and sways spurred by the beating of war drums within his chest. He followed its chords, every piece of himself a mere extension of its rally. When the last orc fell headless before him, he whirled in search of the next. But there were none. Slaughter spread out in a widening circle across the field. Yet the fire within him continued to burn. It was not enough!

Chest heaving, Elrohir scanned the bodies for something still alive, something he could kill to sate this bloodlust for vengeance. It would never be enough. No matter how many orcs he slew, he wanted more. Wanted them _all_ to pay.

His eyes met those of his brother, dark irises mirroring the fury coiled as tight as a wound cobra within each of them. Elladan inclined his head in a gesture of solidarity; their task here was done.

Elrohir started forward, as did Elladan, and the two met in the center of the carnage. As the fuel to their choler began to die down, they turned their attention to more practical matters, such as searching each other for injuries, though it was difficult to see underneath the spatter of black gore coating their tunics and hair. Elrohir often didn’t feel his own injuries in the midst of battle, but now that adrenaline was seeping away, he could feel the sharp sting on his left forearm. A quick glance revealed a shallow cut; hardly anything to worry about at the moment. Elladan had a bruise mottling his right cheekbone, but otherwise appeared unharmed.

“We should burn the carrion so their filth will not blot the land further,” Elrohir seethed.

Elladan simply nodded. That would require a lot of work, and it would probably behoove them to return to Imladris and recruit aid for such a task. But they both knew the reception they would receive: the frowns of disapproval, judgmental glances, and words of rebuke. Elrohir’s temper flared just thinking about it. How could they not understand? How could Father and Glorfindel not see how vital it was to eradicate every single one of these foul beasts from the face of Arda?

“Legolas will probably return with them soon,” Elladan spoke up, always much calmer than his brother. Not that such restraint incensed Elrohir; he was actually grateful for the anchor his composed brother provided.

Now that he thought about it, the idea of Legolas riding back to Imladris struck him as odd. Elrohir looked around, his field of vision morphing from a red haze to sharp clarity, and he noticed the green fletched arrows sticking out of a dozen orcs. He turned in a full circle now, scanning the entire battlefield. If Legolas had stayed to fight, where was he?

“Elladan,” he said, voice dropping low. “Did you see Legolas during the battle?”

Elladan’s brow furrowed, and he quickly swept his gaze around. Elrohir knew when his brother noticed the arrows, because his eyes widened in realization. Elladan whipped back to him, shared horror and alarm reflected in his face; neither had noticed the fair-haired archer during the fight, for they’d been singularly focused on their purpose, paying no heed to anything except the need to destroy the foul beasts that had hurt their mother.

Wordlessly, they branched off in separate directions, eyes roving across the ichor-spattered field and orc corpses in search of their friend. Worry carved out an ever-increasing pit in Elrohir’s stomach, and he began leaping over bodies frantically. “Legolas!”

A glimpse of forest-green and pale gold caught his attention, and that hollow space in his gut was suddenly filled with rocks. “Elladan, here!” Elrohir darted over, dropping to his knees beside Legolas. The archer’s face was pallid, blue eyes shuttered behind closed lids. He was unnaturally still, and a bright red stain was growing on the side of his tunic.

Elrohir shakily reached out a hand to rest in the hollow of Legolas’s neck. He held his own breath until he felt the stutter of a pulse, and then quickly moved his other hand to settle across Legolas’s chest. It took a moment, but he finally detected the faint rise and fall of shallow breaths.

Elladan sprinted up behind him then, expression going slack as he took in the scene.

“He lives,” Elrohir said, but it was a hollow comfort, for the wound looked grave and Legolas seemed barely clinging to life.

Elladan sank to the ground next to them and placed a hand across the prince’s brow, his own furrowing in concentration. After several long moments, he finally spoke, “He put himself into a deep sleep to conserve strength.” Elladan’s gaze drifted to the puddle of crimson oil. “But the blood loss is weakening him.”

Elrohir craned his neck around; the plains were empty in all directions. He set two fingers to his lips and let out a high-pitched whistle, hoping the horses were still within range to hear it. When he turned back, he found Elladan using a knife to cut the lower half of his own tunic into strips, folding them over so the orc blood staining them wouldn’t touch Legolas’s wound and infect it. With a spike of fear, Elrohir lifted the prince’s tunic. The soaked fabric peeled away with a squelch, revealing a jagged stab wound oozing more blood. It was too difficult to see whether the blade that’d done it had been poisoned.

Elrohir suddenly cursed the archer’s brash recklessness. Legolas never should have gone riding with them today. He should have stayed in Imladris and sparred with Glorfindel or talked to his trees. Yet those thoughts quickly doused Elrohir’s ire like the rapids of the Anduin. Was he actually _blaming_ Legolas for this? Rather than rue the fact that they had _all_ gone riding or that Elrohir and Elladan had insisted on confronting the orcs, he was still focused on his quest for vengeance, as though Legolas’s presence had interfered somehow, rather than possibly _saving_ their lives. For as Elrohir counted how many orcs had fallen to arrows, he realized that he and Elladan had escaped with much fewer injuries than they otherwise would have.

“Elrohir,” Elladan snapped, jolting him from those thoughts. He had the strips ready, but needed help to lift Legolas so he could bind the wound.

“We should clean it first,” he protested.

“Not here.” Elladan flicked his eyes around at the massacre. “There’s that stream that runs through the rocks a quarter mile from here.”

Elrohir nodded mutely, pushing one arm under Legolas and elevating him enough for Elladan to bind his stomach. His twin tied it tight, which did not even elicit a grimace from the unconscious prince. Elrohir swallowed hard. This was their fault. If Legolas did not survive…

“Brother,” Elladan’s sharp voice broke through once more. He gave Elrohir both a look of impatience and concern. “Was the scratch you took poisoned?” Elladan suddenly asked.

Elrohir shook his head, even as he held out the arm for his brother to inspect. “No.”

“Did you receive a knock to the head?”

Elrohir made a negative noise laced with irritation. His behavior _was_ uncharacteristically inattentive, however, especially considering the dire need to get Legolas somewhere safer where they could properly tend his wound. “I’m sorry, I’m ready now.”

Elladan gave him a doubtful look, but after scrutinizing the scratch, released his hand and slid his own arms beneath Legolas. Elrohir helped lift the prince until Elladan was fully on his feet and able to shift his grip. Then they headed south-east, away from the bloodbath they had wrought.

Their horses had not caught up to them when they arrived at the small outcropping of rocks, which meant they would have to make do with what they had. Elladan laid Legolas next to the stream, and then twisted to clean his hands in the rippling water. Elrohir leaped over the runnel to crouch down on the other side and do the same. The black orc blood had dried and hardened into a flaky husk, mixed with the bright red of elven blood. Elrohir rubbed his hands raw to get it off.

He saw Elladan shed his outer tunic and remove the cleaner shirt underneath before slipping back into the gore-smattered jerking. Realizing his brother’s intent, Elrohir quickly did the same. They would use his shirt to clean Legolas’s wound, and Elladan’s to then rebind it. After that…well, without horses they would not be able to make it back to Imladris. And with a sinking heart, Elrohir noticed how late the afternoon was waning. It would be dark soon, too dark for a search party to find them easily.

Neither of them spoke as they tended their friend, who did not stir throughout any of their ministrations. It worried Elrohir, how far gone Legolas seemed to be already. _And it is your fault._

_No, the orcs did this!_

_But you chose that fight. Legolas was right, we should have gone for reinforcements. You charged in blindly, and what kind of friend would abandon you? Of course he stayed to fight by your side._

Elrohir stared at the prince’s ashen face, then at the blood once again coating his hands. Oh, his hands ran with rivers of blood and death, all belonging to vile orcs of course. It had never bothered him, not once since that moment when he’d found his mother in their foul dwelling, ravished in both body and spirit. He didn’t care what happened to him, didn’t care about his father’s worries that he and Elladan would lose themselves to hatred. It didn’t matter, not as long as those accursed beasts were wiped out. Yet now…now he began to see what such obsession cost. And it was not the price he had originally agreed to pay.

 

_~A Red Dawn~_

 

Elladan checked Legolas’s pulse and breathing once again, as he had done unceasingly throughout the night. Mostly it had been too slow, stuttering at times that made Elladan’s own heart skip a beat. Yet as stubborn as the Mirkwood Prince himself, the faint rhythm throbbed again, obstinately clinging to life. The wound had stopped bleeding, and showed no signs of poison, but otherwise remained grave, for they had not the supplies to stitch it or the ability to carry Legolas back to Imladris. Elladan rued the decision to send the horses away. He and Elrohir never rode them into skirmishes with orcs, not wanting them to receive injury. Besides, if he admitted to himself, he liked killing up close, savored the moment when that flicker of evil intent in the eyes of their enemy was snuffed out at their hand. Each and every kill was personal, a vendetta against the monsters that had tormented their mother. Normally, Elladan and Elrohir would be reveling in the fact that they had slain forty of the despicable creatures.

_See?_ Elladan wanted to throw back at his father and Glorfindel. _See our mighty deeds? Show me an elf who could have accomplished this!_

And yet, with their friend lying between them, teetering on the precipice between life and death, it did not feel like a victory.

Elladan remembered his father’s words to them several months ago, exchanged in the heat of mutual exasperation and anger.

_“The path of vengeance will only lead to destruction!”_

_“Yes, theirs!”_

To think in all of Arda he was counted among the wise-folk. How foolish he had been. After an entire night with nothing but the fruits of his venture to captivate his attention, Elladan realized how precipitous their actions were. Truly, he and Elrohir came out mostly unscathed due to pure stupid luck. And one Mirkwood Prince’s expert aim.

Elladan rested his hand atop Legolas’s chest again, feeling the strain with which each breath was fought for. And yet the longer the archer held on, the more hope Elladan desperately clung to. _Just a little longer,_ he silently urged. _Until Ada or Glorfindel find us._

The morning had broken with a red sun, bathing the sky in fulvous clouds. As if Elladan needed a more vibrant reminder of what his actions had wrought. Guilt washed over him anew, and he squeezed his eyes shut against the dawn’s condemnations. And yet…all was not lost. With each new day came the offer of redemption.

Elladan glanced up at his brother, an equally silent fixture on Legolas’s other side. Elrohir looked a wreck, tunic slashed and torn to be harvested for makeshift bandages. He’d tried to wash the stains and gore from the rest of his clothes, but had only succeeded in diluting and widening the black splotches. Strands of sable hair stuck out from knotted binding cords, the rest hanging dull and limp over his shoulders.

_Probably a mirror image of yourself_ , Elladan thought ruefully. His twin’s quietness concerned him. Usually Elrohir was as open and volatile with his emotions as an active volcano, whereas Elladan tended to stew and simmer like a dormant one. He knew what kept his brother restrained this time though—the same thing that was gnawing away at Elladan’s own mind.

“ _Muindor_ …” he began softly.

Elrohir’s eyes lifted to meet his, deep pools swirling with worry, regret, and confusion, an echo of the tumultuous thoughts raging within Elladan. “We should kill them all for this,” he murmured, almost automatically with only a trace of his former intensity.

Elladan frowned. “I do not think the blame rightly falls to them.”

Elrohir’s eyes widened. “You cannot be thinking of blaming Legolas! He was only trying to help us!”

“Peace, brother.” Elladan fixed him with a stern look. “Of course I do not think that. But…we need not look outside this hollow for who is at fault.”

Elrohir ducked his gaze. “Aye,” he spoke after a long moment, voice almost too soft to hear. “ _Ai_ , Elladan, what have we done?”

His mouth tightened. “Exactly what father warned us against—we lost ourselves.”

Elrohir nodded. “I remember nothing of the battle except the need to kill. Not where Legolas was…not where you were. Elladan, you could have fallen and I would not have noticed!” He rocked forward onto his knees, horror flooding his mien as he reached for his twin’s arm. “You could have called for help, and I would not have come.” Some of the color drained from his face, and his eyes dropped to Legolas. “What if he called out to us? What if he called for aid and I ignored him?”

Elladan squeezed his arm. “I did not hear anything either, brother. Not Legolas, not you.” It was one thing to trust your companions’ skills in battle, another to fight as though they were not even there, to callously ignore when they might be struggling. Legolas had fought to watch their backs, and they had not done the same for him. That was not battle. That was…

Elladan’s other hand went to his chest where ice had speared him. Elrohir looked up sharply, and began tugging on his arm.

“Elladan? What is it? What’s wrong?”

“El…brother,” he gasped. “Have we…?” No, he could not say it, could not _think_ it. _They_ were not the monsters!

“Elladan! Speak to me!”

He jolted when Elrohir shook his arm as though cracking a whip. “I just…what we do, Elrohir…how is it any different from how orcs ravage and plunder?”

Elrohir reeled back as if slapped. “You cannot be comparing us to them! They are _vermin_!”

“Because they murder without regard. Tell me, brother, how is what we’ve been doing not the same?” Elladan was genuinely asking; he truly wanted Elrohir to tell him that what they were doing was righteous. Because if it was, then what happened to Legolas was a terrible casualty of war, and not the result of their own blind hatred.

“Elrohir,” he continued. “Does our quest to avenge _Nana_ honor her? Or does it enslave us?”

Elrohir blinked at him in disbelief. “Are you saying we should give up hunting orcs? Because I will _never_ forget what they did to her!”

“Neither will I!” Elladan ran a hand over his hair. He was not suggesting they cease their hunts, for he could not abide the thought of letting such monsters roam free to hurt others. But how they had been going about it… “No, brother, I will not stand by and let such foul beasts taint the Middle-earth I love. But…perhaps it would be wise if we…ceased for a time. So we may find a way to continue the fight, without losing ourselves to the point we endanger those we care about.”

Both of them glanced at the pale prince lying between them, and Elladan felt the rage drain from his brother.

“I…think you are right,” Elrohir said, his hand falling upon Legolas’s shoulder. He let out a shuddering breath. “Very well. I will make a vow here to cease hunting for…”

Elladan frowned, also realizing that they could not postpone their quest indefinitely, and yet how could they quantify how much time it would take to recover themselves? To heal? For it was not a matter to be taken lightly. He swallowed hard. “Until Father deems us ready.” Oh, how those words burned his throat and pride, but Elladan was determined not to be foolish again.

Elrohir’s face scrunched up as though he, too, were chewing something sour, but at last he gave a clipped nod. “Until Father deems us ready,” he echoed morosely. “As long as he agrees to be reasonable about it,” he added resentfully.

Elladan was about to roll his eyes, when a soft snort drew both brothers’ startled attention to the figure lying on the ground.

“Lord Elrond…is far more…reasonable than you…two, _pe-channas_ ,” Legolas muttered breathlessly.

Elladan was too stunned to take offense at being called an idiot, and he gripped the prince’s shoulder tightly. “ _Ai_ , Legolas! You’re awake!”

“Or dreaming,” he said hoarsely, eyelids finally fluttering open. Pupils that weren’t quite focusing shifted between the twins. “And you’re alive,” he murmured in relief.

“Yes, no doubt thanks to you,” Elrohir said, but then his mouth pinched in distress. “And so are you, _in spite_ of us. Can you ever forgive us, _mellon nîn_?”

Legolas frowned. “For what?” He shifted as though to lift his head, but grimaced and dropped it back down.

Elrohir pressed firmly against his shoulder to keep him from trying it again. “For leading you into a vain battle and nearly getting you killed. Please forgive us, Legolas; we should have listened to you.”

Legolas let out a long breath, which caused him another wince, and when he spoke again, his voice was much weaker. “I know…what it’s like…to be consumed with…emotion.”

Elladan scooped up a handful of water from the stream and gently dribbled it into Legolas’s mouth.

“ _Le hannon_ ,” the prince whispered in thanks. “She was…your mother. I…do understand.” He coughed then, and his face screwed up in pain.

“Shh, _mellon nîn_ ,” Elladan urged. “Save your strength.”

Legolas lashed out suddenly, grabbing each of their sleeves. “Please, don’t embrace this darkness. There are so many…who love you…”

Elrohir laid his hand across the prince’s brow. “We know, Legolas. And we promise to find our way back.” He smiled, and for the first time in a long while, Elladan noted that it reached his twin’s eyes. “There are many to guide us home.”

Legolas relaxed, his grip on their sleeves growing lax.

“Including you,” Elladan added firmly, drawing tired blue eyes to meet his gaze. “So you must hold on until help comes.”

Legolas nodded. “ _Gweston_ ,” he promised, body relaxing against the grass. In the distance, Elladan heard the whinny of a horse and the trumpet of an elvish horn.


	5. She Walks in Starlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She may be gone, but her memory lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. *waves shyly* I know it's been forever since I've posted in this fandom, but White Ithiliel on ff.net messaged me asking if I would ever come back. So here's a one shot for you. I know it's kind of short, but I hope you like it anyway. =)
> 
> Btw, the title does not have anything to do with Tauriel.

Thranduil was stirred from elven dreams by the echo of a haunting melody. So faint was its resonance in his ears, that for a moment he was uncertain whether he was still walking along the dream paths, the lilting flute beckoning him to return. Yet as the glaze of sleep gradually cleared from his eyes, the distant music did not. It wafted from somewhere within the palace, or perhaps through an open window high above.

Thranduil would have dismissed it and returned to his work—he had not meant to nod off at his desk—except the next string of notes struck his heart with the accuracy of an arrow. He sat as still as stone, knuckles whitening over the armrests of his chair. It couldn't be. No one knew that song.

He surged to his feet, ire and terror a squall within his breast. What phantom had come to haunt his waking dreams as it did so often in the elven paths? What wretched wraith would seek to torment him so?

With a flourish of his robes, Thranduil swept out of his study and into the corridor. The palace was tranquil in the dead of night this eve, one of the few days out of the season where all but the guard retired in repose. Even the Elvenking had succumbed to shared weariness. Ruling and defending a kingdom that fell more and more to shadow with each passing day would be a heavy burden on anyone, even the graced Firstborn.

The mellow timbre continued, infiltrating every nook and cranny of the underground palace, pervading Thranduil's heart like both a balm and poison. He strode forward, sweeping through passage after passage, ascending the platforms toward the upper levels. No one stirred at his movements, as though he, too, were a ghost gliding among them.

The melody grew louder, clearer, the rich notes carrying both whimsy and sadness. Thranduil's steps quickened, dread clenching his heart. He was afraid the ghost would vanish before he found it, but also terrified to find it real.

He came to the room with pearly doors gilded in polished birch, doors that had not been opened in a decade. Yet he knew beyond a shadow of doubt that the source of the aching music issued from within. His chest constricted again, and his hand rested upon the knob as though drawn by some preternatural chord nested deep within the notes.

Thranduil pushed the door open slowly, and froze at the visage before him. The windows of the balcony had been thrown wide open where a figure stood, facing outward. Moonlight swathed them in a halo of blazing white, long blonde hair cascading down with glints of stardust clinging to the strands. Arms held a flute aloft, the instrument glinting silver in the soft glow. To the side was a music stand, sheets of parchment illuminated in the lunar aura.

Thranduil's breath caught in his throat as he gaped at the apparition, as though she had descended from the stars on waves of moonbeams. He didn't realize he'd made a sound until the haunting music cut off mid-note, and the ghostly specter whirled around, shattering the vision like the shards of a mirror.

Legolas stared with wide eyes. "Adar…"

Thranduil could not find his voice, still reeling from how real it had all seemed, how close he'd come to seeing…

"What are you doing?" he found himself saying. No one was allowed in the Queen's private chambers. _No one_. And Thranduil traversed this empty corridor often enough to know that the doors had always remained undisturbed…

His gaze flicked over Legolas's shoulder to the window, and he felt a modicum of irritation and exasperation. Of course.

Legolas ducked his gaze, radiating guilt. "Forgive me. Everyone is asleep, I thought I would not disturb anyone."

Thranduil finally regained control of his composure. He gently shut the door and took a few more steps into the room, considering his next words carefully. Legolas did not look up.

"I didn't know you could play," Thranduil finally said.

Legolas shifted uncomfortably. "I studied in my spare time. I thought learning would help me feel…" He trailed off.

"What?" Thranduil prompted. Commanded.

Legolas's shoulders drooped a fraction in resignation. "Feel closer to her."

Thranduil turned his head away, clenching a fist until the pang in his heart subsided. In his desperate bid to keep his own grief at bay, had he committed a grievance against his son, whose heart must surely ache as much as his own?

Mustering a sense of calm, he lifted his head and closed the distance. Thranduil reached out and picked up the top sheet of music, penned in the familiar feminine flourish.

"She composed this."

Legolas startled, eyes widening as he glanced at the piece he had been playing. "I did not know," he said softly.

Thranduil nodded. There were others, other pieces he should share with his son. Anariel had written several compositions, including one for Legolas when he was born. Legolas should know of it.

But not tonight, perhaps, for her memory was still too near for Thranduil's sake. He turned his head up toward the moonlight, letting it fall upon his brow with soothing comfort. Some things were too painful, but in this moment, there was one thing he could bear, and thus grant his son.

Thranduil moved to the settee and reclined against the backrest. "I would like to hear it from the beginning. If you will."

Legolas looked hesitant at first, his movements nervous as he lifted the flute to his lips again. The first note came out flat, and the next stuttered. Thranduil could forgive him; the Elvenking had not made a habit of being a forgiving audience.

Legolas flashed him an apologetic look, and Thranduil waved for him to continue. Though tentative, Legolas soon found the melody of the song. His eyes closed as his spirit descended into the heart of the music, the rest of the world fading away. Thranduil watched, captivated by the serene look on his son's face. In the light of the moon, he saw Anariel's soul manifesting before him.

He turned his head up to gaze at the night sky. The somber cadence lulled him into a dreamlike trance, carrying his grief as though it had the power to cast it over the mountains and into the sea. As he gazed up at the stars, a figure bathed in pearly mist seemed to dance before his eyes. Thranduil lifted a hand toward it, wishing he could dance with her. It was but a dream, of course. But in that dream, she smiled upon them both.


	6. Always a King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn has a crisis of faith the night after his coronation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Kim Wit on ff.net.

The night was finally silent. The coronation celebration had lasted most of the day and continued well past sunset. There had been a mixture of rousing music fit for dancing, along with the solemn scales of dirges. Minas Tirith was filled with both cheer and grieving, as they had won the war and their king had returned, but the loss of life had been staggering.

Legolas found himself in awe of these mortal beings, capable of feeling such a vast range of emotions in a single day, even a single hour. For an elf, such intensity would be almost crippling, and he felt renewed confidence in the strength of men, now that they would be the race to lead Middle Earth when his own kin departed. Even being surrounded by so many was overwhelming. On one street there would be dancing and jubilation, and on the next Legolas would find crumbled buildings and flowers strewn across the stone where so many had fallen whilst holding the last line of defense. In between chords of energetic music, Legolas heard snatches of sobs rising up from the depths of ruined homes. He longed for trees and grass, a sense of familiarity. The elves of Rivendell had retreated to the plains after the festivities ended, though there was little comfort to be had in the patch of earth scored with battle scars. It, too, would take a long time to fully heal.

So Legolas sought respite elsewhere—he climbed the steps of one of the highest towers in the citadel in search of the stars. He had not counted on another having similar inclinations for a solitary refuge.

Aragorn's profile was cast half in shadow, half in the waning light of the crescent moon rising in the east as he leaned against the embrasure in the parapet. The crown from his coronation was missing, as was the kingly mantle with the symbol of his house draped about his shoulders. He looked more like the Ranger, the still and silent sentinel. All that was missing was his pipe.

Legolas fully emerged onto the turret and made his way over. Aragorn flicked a glance at him, and the corners of the man's mouth quirked upward slightly in shared sentiment over them both seeking solitude up here. Neither spoke. This high up, only the faintest chime of music drifted to Legolas's ears; the wind snatched most of it away. He tilted his head up to gaze at the stars, brilliant glittering shards scattered across the black canvas. Ages of memory were chronicled in their unceasing witness of time and history, and few as significant as this day.

Legolas frowned as he turned to study the silent presence beside him. Aragorn's eyes were hooded, expression somber. The past few days, weeks even, had to have been overwhelming, and yet with their victory over Sauron, Aragorn reclaiming the throne of Gondor, and his reunion with Arwen, Legolas had expected a little more…relief. And why wasn't the man with his soon-to-be bride?

"Where is Arwen?"

Just the mention of her name managed to ease some of the tension in Aragorn's eyes. "With the hobbits. Frodo and Sam tire easily, but Pippin is a knot of pent up energy, and it wears Merry out trying to keep an eye on him."

Ah yes, Legolas recalled seeing Meriadoc attempting to keep Pippin from the ale at the feast earlier. The young hobbit hadn't seemed that much different than usual, though perhaps a little more loud and boisterous. He had still been drowned out by an inebriated dwarf.

Aragorn's gaze had turned distant again, eyes staring westward as though he could see farther than any mortal. Or elf.

"You are troubled," Legolas observed.

Aragorn's lips curved wryly. "I am beginning to think that defeating Sauron was the easy part."

Legolas frowned at his melancholy tone. "You have friends and allies behind you, Aragorn. Gandalf and Elrond have promised to guide you during the transition. Arwen, of course, will be at your side. Faramir has already pledged his loyalty to you, and with him the men of this city will follow. They only need to get to know you, and their hearts and respect will be yours."

Aragorn let out a soft snort. "And therein lies the problem, for I am no longer who I was. So many lives were lost in this war. I mourn them all. I mourn myself."

Legolas furrowed his brow in confusion. "You are still here, Aragorn."

"No, King Elessar is here. Aragorn is…at times. With you, with Arwen. With those who know and loved me before I was a king. With the hobbits I am but Strider. Yet I must put him aside. I must put aside the Ranger, the man I have been for the past eighty years, and become…this. A figurehead, a crown." He turned away to walk to the other end of the turret wreathed in night.

Legolas watched him sadly. He'd known since the beginning how Aragorn had never wanted this destiny. The man had been afraid of his legacy, afraid of failing when so much rested on his shoulders. But he had not failed. There was greatness in him precisely because he didn't believe himself worthy.

"You were always a king, Aragorn," Legolas said quietly. "That is what you have never managed to remember."

Aragorn closed his eyes in apparent grief. "I am selfish, _mellon nîn_. I am not ready to give up being Aragorn, or Strider. I fought for the freedom of the world, only to sacrifice my own."

Legolas moved closer and clasped his shoulder. "You are not selfish. Your entire life, you have borne the burdens of your line, your race. It is natural to seek an escape from it at times."

"It is cowardice and weakness, and unbefitting a king," he countered.

Legolas gave him a stern look. "You know I have never wanted my father's throne, either. How many quests did I undertake with a certain Ranger to make my position abundantly clear?"

Aragorn's mouth twitched.

"And yet if he sails, and I take up rule over Mirkwood, am I unfit?" Legolas challenged.

Aragorn's eyes widened. "Of course not. You were never turning your back on your people. You were fighting for the greater good, for them, for all of us."

"As were you. And when the time came for you to return, you did. Yes, you will have to be many things to different people as king, but you are no stranger to leadership, and you will also have your friends to remind you who you truly are." Legolas gave his shoulder another squeeze. "Trust in that."

Aragorn's jaw tightened. "And will you be one of those friends?" he asked softly.

Legolas gave him a small smile. That was something he had been giving a great deal of thought to recently. While his father would most likely want him to return home, he wasn't actually _needed_ there. And though Legolas had avoided any form of command outside of captaining the guard, he was now considering exactly that. But the vision of what he might tackle here in the south was a conversation for another time.

"Yes, _mellon nîn_. _Gweston_ ," he promised.

Some of the tension loosened from Aragorn's posture, and he dipped his head in gratitude. " _Hannon le_."

Legolas smiled more brightly. "Now, perhaps you should be rescuing your betrothed from one overly intoxicated hobbit."

Aragorn laughed, and the sound was good to hear. "You are right, as always. Will you accompany me?"

"Next time," he replied. "I should like to see the stars for a bit longer."

Aragorn nodded in understanding, and turned toward the staircase. He paused. "Legolas, there will be many pressing needs over the next few days, weeks, and even months. But will you speak to me later of what is obviously on your mind this night? I shall not be a king too busy for his friends."

Legolas inclined his head in gratitude and confirmation. "I will, after I have had some time to contemplate it more." And come to terms with what life an archer may eke out in a world of peace.


	7. First Impressions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn meets Thranduil for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by an anonymous guest on ff.net.

 

"How much further to the palace?" Aragorn asked his guide.

"Not far," the Wood-elf replied, lithely slipping between the notch of two trees.

Mirkwood was a dense forest of tightly knotted trees, most of which had grown heavy under the expanding Shadow from the south, but Legolas navigated its woods with intimate familiarity, for it was his home and he loved it dearly. Aragorn noted so with each light touch the spry elf delivered to various oak and birch sentinels, as though imparting a passing greeting. And perhaps it was a wisp of fancy or a trick of the light, but sometimes it seemed as though the trees would splay their branches, preening in response to the elf's attentions.

Aragorn had only recently met the Elven Prince of Mirkwood, but already they had forged the bonds of a stout friendship. Fighting back-to-back for survival tended to do that. And now Legolas was leading Aragorn through Mirkwood, all the way to the palace of the Wood-elves. As a Ranger, Aragorn had traveled far and wide, but he had yet to venture this far into the dark forest before. Not only because the road was treacherous to those who lost their feet about them, but the Elvenking of Mirkwood did not have the most welcoming reputation. Aragorn took courage in the fact that his son, Legolas, seemed nothing like the intimidating rumors that preceded his father.

The compact canopy began to thin, and up ahead sunlight streamed down in golden shards upon a narrow bridge leading up to the side of a mountain. Four granite pillars ornately shaped like trees with their roots spilling out over the ledge of stone braced the outcropping of rock overhead, and a few feet past were shorter columns branching up into archways, and intricately etched doors of cool jade. Aragorn pulled up short.

Legolas continued a few feet before noticing, and turned to quirk a questioning brow.

"You live underground."

Legolas's frown deepened in confusion. "The palace was built into the side of a mountain for security."

Aragorn's lips twitched. "Like a dwarf."

The elf's eyes darkened. "It most certainly is not."

Aragorn couldn't help but laugh, and he picked up his pace to catch up. "I am sorry, _mellon_ _nîn_ , I merely jest."

Legolas rolled his eyes in exasperation just as the great doors creaked open and a pair of guards stepped out. Unlike Legolas, these had dark hair and brown eyes.

" _Hîr_ _nîn, Legolas!_ " one hailed his lord. Then he paused, brows furrowing at the sight of Aragorn. " _Man câr hi?_ " he inquired, blatantly asking what the man was doing here.

Aragorn's mouth quirked, and he ducked his head close to Legolas's. "I see all Wood-elves have similar manners," he teased. Legolas had also spoken in Elvish to Gandalf the Grey in Aragorn's presence, wrongly assuming that the human could not understand them. But Aragorn had been raised among the Fair Folk and could speak as fluently as one of their own.

" _Ni elvellon!_ " Aragorn called back, declaring himself a friend of the elves and taking smug pleasure in the shocked looks that overcame the guards' faces.

" _Pêd edhellen!_ " the second exclaimed the obvious in that the human, indeed, spoke Elvish.

Legolas shook his head in wry amusement. " _Nathlo i nathal!_ " he responded, proclaiming they were to welcome their guest. "This is Aragorn of the Dúnedain, and indeed friend of the elves." He made his way across the bridge, and Aragorn followed.

The sentries exchanged dubious looks. "Forgive us, _hîr_ _nîn_ , but with the Elven Path restricted…well, we did not expect you to return with company."

"By my leave, Aragorn has permission to come and go through our lands at his will," Legolas said with an air of authority. "Be sure the Guard knows of this, ere he departs."

The first guard swallowed almost nervously. "And when do you expect that might be?"

Legolas shrugged, not deigning to answer the question, and turned to head inside. Aragorn gave both Wood-elves a hasty nod before following. As he came up beside Legolas, his friend leaned over and lowered his voice.

"Keep your comments about dwarves to yourself, or my father might upgrade your accommodations to the dungeons."

Aragorn couldn't hold back a cheeky grin. "Would it be the same cell the famous party of Thorin was held in? Because I believe old Bilbo would rather enjoy the parallel."

Legolas scowled, but it was good-natured and only encouraged Aragorn's mood. However, he put his jesting aside and affected a formal attitude befitting his Chieftain status and as a representative of the House of Elrond. He would like to court the Elvenking's good will, if he could, for enemies were numerous and allies few, and it never hurt to have places one might seek sanctuary established far and wide.

"I will show you to a room," Legolas said. "It might be better to ease my father into the idea of your visit by letting the guard report your arrival. You can meet him at the evening meal."

Aragorn supposed that sounded wise, and trusted Legolas's judgement in these matters. He followed the elf prince up a lattice staircase and across platforms linking the intricate passages. There were, indeed, trees in this cavernous space, old ones as aged and crinkled as the stone surrounding them. Unlike dwarf caves, there were no tunnels or great walls dividing the palace, but a wide open hollow with raised platforms and criss-crossing stairs or bridges. Despite it being away from the sun and brightly colored flora Aragorn was used to seeing at Rivendell, there was still a marvelous beauty in the underground structure. And, he found, there were small windows high up that let in faint dustings of afternoon light.

"I take back my quip from earlier," Aragorn said. "Your home is magnificent."

Legolas tipped his head back to sweep his gaze along the upper levels, and then across the expanse. "I have heard tales of Lórien, how our kin have similar architecture, except they climb high into the trees and can look out all the way to the horizon." He canted a look at Aragorn. "Have your travels taken you through Lórien?"

"Aye, and it is as you say. But I do not think one can compare the two, for there are many types of beauty in this world, and it is the uniqueness that makes it so." In all things save one, which had stolen Aragorn's heart. But he would not speak of that at the moment.

"Perhaps we may travel to Lothlórien together someday," he suggested.

Legolas's eyes gleamed. "Perhaps."

After settling Aragorn's belongings in a guest room, it was near enough to supper that Legolas led the Ranger along more winding staircases and up to one of the higher platforms. Aragorn marveled at the structure—a four-tiered fountain rippled with the slightest current of mountain water, even this far up. The polished birch floor looked like smooth ivory, and more woven branches framed one side of the dais that looked out over the rest.

There was a table set to one side, plates and goblets already set out—three, in anticipation of Aragorn's presence. The hospitality of the elves never disappointed.

But here Aragorn caught his first glimpse of the Elvenking of Mirkwood. Tall and imposing, Thranduil stood like a statue, arms casually folded behind his back. A crown of branches dotted with holly berries framed a rather severe face. Only his eyes moved as they shrewdly tracked Aragorn's approach.

"Father," Legolas spoke, "this is Aragorn of the Dúnedain."

Thranduil's eyes flicked down and up in a quick once-over of the man before the Elvenking finally shifted, proving he was not merely an extension of the surrounding stone.

" _Le nathlof hi_ ," Thranduil said, formally stating that Aragorn was welcome here.

Aragorn dipped his head respectfully, and replied with equal formality, " _Mê le 'ovannen_." _Well met_.

Thranduil arched a single brow, and then extended his arm. "Please, be seated."

Aragorn slowly sat at the table, Legolas across from him and Thranduil at the head. Two elves that had been standing under the eaves came forward then and began to serve the evening meal, which consisted of a platter of succulent fruits and breads, and a rich, dark red wine. The clinking of plates was strident in the tense silence.

"Your home is beautiful," Aragorn said, attempting conversation once the servers had retreated again.

Thranduil inclined his head the barest fraction in acknowledgement, but otherwise did not respond. Perhaps his reputation for being a stern and recalcitrant king was not far from the mark. No wonder he had not tolerated the coarse and boorish manners of a certain dwarf company.

"I trust your passage through the forest was unimpeded," Thranduil finally said, though he clearly addressed the statement to Legolas.

"Yes," Legolas replied. "There were no signs of spiders encroaching past the Elven Path at the moment."

"Good."

Silence fell again, and Aragorn tried to chew more softly so as not to irritate his host. He was beginning to think this first meeting was not going all that well. Though at least he hadn't been threatened with the dungeon.

"So," Thranduil spoke up, flicking a glance at Aragorn. "A Ranger of the Dúnedain."

Aragorn waited for a question or something more he could respond to.

"You arrived alone. Were you separated from your company?" the Elvenking went on. "Or exiled?"

Legolas shot his father a sharp look.

Aragorn, however, refused to be daunted. "I often ride afar of the Grey Company," he said. "There is danger in being their Chieftain, and so I lead from a distance."

Thranduil's eyes narrowed. "Indeed," he murmured. "And how did you and my son cross paths?"

"By way of Gandalf the Grey."

Fire seemed to spark in the Elvenking's eyes at that, yet it was gone in a flash. Aragorn glanced at Legolas in time to see the elf prince take a rather long draught of wine. Were things really going so poorly?

"Legolas," Thranduil said abruptly. "The servers seemed to have disappeared. Why don't you fetch another bottle of Dorwinion, one of a better vintage for our esteemed guest."

Legolas flicked an uncertain look between his father and Aragorn, but nevertheless slowly rose from his chair. Aragorn watched him descend the stairs two at a time, and prepared himself for what he knew was coming.

Sure enough, once Legolas was out of elven earshot, Thranduil turned sharply toward Aragorn. "I do not like my son getting caught up in the affairs of others. It is bad enough that Mithrandir comes stirring up Legolas's wild Silvan side, but you, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, are a portent of doom."

Aragorn stiffened, which was enough for the keen Elvenking to notice.

"Yes, I have guessed who you are. And I will not see my son swept away in your own path to destruction."

Aragorn's jaw clenched. "I assure you, my lord, that I have grown rather fond of Legolas in the short time I have known him. Already we have had to place our own lives in the other's hands, and he has proven his strength of character and will. There are few I trust wholeheartedly in this world," Aragorn admitted. "But Legolas is one of them, and I would not, for a single moment, abide him coming to harm."

"Then you will leave at first light and never look back?" Thranduil challenged.

Aragorn bit back a disrespectful response, measuring his breath and words carefully. "No, my lord," he said, forcing reverence into his tone. "Think of me what you will, but as there are few in this world I trust, so too are there few who will ever truly know me, for as you have deduced, my identity is a dangerous one to bear. Though I have known him a short time, Legolas and I have already gone beyond pretense. He is like my…" Aragorn hesitated. " _Gieran_ ," he finished. Yes, Legolas was fast becoming as much of a beloved brother as Elladan and Elrohir were.

Thranduil looked taken aback at the declaration, but Aragorn would not rescind it. He had spoken from the heart, and held it true.

"I suspect that Legolas also finds a certain freedom away from pretense," Aragorn dared to add.

Thranduil's mouth tightened into a thin line, but he did not contest the point. After a long moment of silent deliberation, the Elvenking reclined back in his chair. "You have the countenance and wisdom of your forebears. I dearly hope you do not possess their weaknesses as well."

Aragorn clenched his fist under the table. _So did he_. "In one thing I do possess that they did not—stout friends who will challenge such weaknesses, and hopefully make me better for them."

Thranduil arched a brow, and something in his flinty expression shifted, perhaps to a modicum of respect, perhaps merely a flicker of concession. In any case, the discussion ceased, for Legolas was returning. The elf prince looked warily at the two as he opened the new bottle of wine and poured a fresh helping into each of their goblets.

Thranduil picked his up and lifted it. "To new friendships," he toasted.

The look of stupefaction on Legolas's face almost made Aragorn laugh, but he held it back and raised his cup as well. "May the stars shine upon them."


End file.
